Free Murder in Megara by Eric Mayer Page A

invoking his old pet name for her, alluding to the Cretan Lady of the Nets because she had snared him at first sight, a name they both joked only John would have thought to use.
    Cornelia pushed him away. “No! Don’t you Britomartis me!”
    She wiped her eyes. “Here I am weeping over your lost past. We must think about Peter.”
    â€œWe’ll take up the search again at first light. I’m sure if Georgios’ men had located him they would have paraded him in here. Hypatia said he’d got into a dark humor and went out to calm down. He’ll be disappointed that he missed all the excitement.”
    â€œYes, I suppose you’re right.” She put an arm around him. “Now you can Britomartis me.”
    ***
    The roosters crowed before Hypatia realized that morning was finally arriving. She had begun to think it would never come. The window of the bedroom remained dark, opening as it did on the still-shadowed courtyard. It was a relief to abandon trying to sleep and get up. Peter had alarmed her the night before by bolting, obviously agitated and upset. She went after him but he was nowhere to be found. After returning to their quarters she lay awake all night waiting for his return.
    She went into the other room, smoothing down the wrinkles in her light sleeping tunica. She had done so much tossing and turning it would have been more restful if she had simply stayed up all night. She half expected to see Peter asleep on the couch, having crept in and not wishing to awaken her, but it was occupied only by the two cats who opened their eyes reluctantly and gave her resentful looks.
    Where was Peter?
    Had he seen her walking with Philip?
    She bit her lip.
    Had he seen anything further?
    Philip had led her to a cliff projecting into the sea, giving her a stunning view of the monstrous moon trailing its long silver tail across the glassy water. The handsome young watchman had told her that it was the favorite spot for disappointed lovers to cast themselves into the sea. He had been joking, she thought.
    Her imagination ran wild. She saw Peter, in despair, approaching the edge of the cliff and throwing himself over, or perhaps taking a track down to the shore and walking into the water. Or coming to the edge of the estate and carrying on, walking until he was ambushed by persons seeking to rob him. Or perhaps meeting someone from Megara who recognized him as one of the loathed newcomers, out on a lonely road, unarmed, in the dead of night.
    What had Peter seen?
    She must have been talking to herself because a voice from the doorway answered her.
    â€œWhat did I see? What are you talking about? Is that any way to greet your husband?”
    Peter stood there, one hand on its frame to steady himself. By the faint predawn grayness that had begun to seep into the courtyard she saw his clothes were torn, his face haggard. He looked older.
    â€œOh, Peter,” she cried. “Thank the Goddess!”
    â€œThank the Lord,” he corrected her as she clung to him.

Chapter Thirteen
    The sun peeked into the room in shy fashion as John and Cornelia ate a frugal meal of boiled eggs accompanied by olives and stale bread, served by an apologetic and hollow-eyed Hypatia. John had ordered Peter to rest for a few hours before taking up culinary chores again, stifling the loyal servant’s protests about laziness and not carrying out his duties with a threat to increase the time he was not permitted to work.
    â€œI’m surprised the sun dares to look in on us,” Cornelia remarked. “Who knows what dreadful event it will see happening next?” She pushed her plate away without touching her bread. “When do you expect the City Defender to speak with you again?”
    â€œWhen he’s ready, which will no doubt be after constructing a theory, no matter how ramshackle, concerning why I murdered Theophilus and who my accomplices might be.”
    â€œYou have decided the intent